The Garden of Allah eBook

“I know. But one does sometimes pity men
one never has seen, never will see, if one hears something
frightful about them. Perhaps—­don’t
smile, Boris—­perhaps it was seeing that
liqueur, which he had actually made in the monastery
when he was at peace with God, perhaps it was seeing
that, that has made me realise—­such trifles
stir the imagination, set it working—­at
any rate—­”

She broke off. After a minute, during which he
said nothing, she continued:

“I believe the priest felt something of the
same sort. He could not drink the liqueur that
man had made, although he intended to.”

“But—­that might have been for a different
reason,” Androvsky said in a harsh voice; “priests
have strange ideas. They often judge things cruelly,
very cruelly.”

“Perhaps they do. Yes; I can imagine that
Father Roubier of Beni-Mora might, though he is a
good man and leads a saintly life.”

“Those are sometimes the most cruel. They
do not understand.”

“Perhaps not. It may be so. But this
priest—­he’s not like that.”

She thought of his genial, bearded face, his expression
when he said, “We are ruffians of the sun,”
including himself with the desert men, his boisterous
laugh.

“His fault might be the other way.”

“Which way?”

“Too great a tolerance.”

“Can a man be too tolerant towards his fellow-man?”
said Androvsky.

There was a strange sound of emotion in his deep voice
which moved her. It seemed to her—­why,
she did not know—­to steal out of the depth
of something their mutual love had created.

“The greatest of all tolerance is God’s,”
she said. “I’m sure—­quite
sure—­of that.”

Androvsky came in out of the shadow of the tent, took
her in his arms with passion, laid his lips on hers
with passion, hot, burning force and fire, and a hard
tenderness that was hard because it was intense.

“God will bless you,” he said. “God
will bless you. Whatever life brings you at the
end you must—­you must be blessed by Him.”

“But He has blessed me,” she whispered,
through tears that rushed from her eyes, stirred from
their well-springs by his sudden outburst of love
for her. “He has blessed me. He has
given me you, your love, your truth.”

Androvsky released her as abruptly as he had taken
her in his arms, turned, and went out into the desert.

CHAPTER XXIV

True to his promise, on the following day the priest
called to inquire after Androvsky’s health.
He happened to come just before dejeuner was
ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent
door.

“It’s not fever then, Monsieur,”
he said, after they had shaken hands.